


maybe on purpose

by cenli



Category: The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: (really mild though!), Aged-Up Character(s), Fluff, Implied/Referenced Panic Attacks, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 19:17:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6484252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cenli/pseuds/cenli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nico yanks him back into sunshine, let's him go as Jason gasps, wretches, blinks open sky-blue eyes that could never quite get used to emptiness. </p><p>“Overshot,” Nico mumbles, then slumps against the scuzzy brick wall of the alley they've landed in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	maybe on purpose

**Author's Note:**

> i have a lot of feelings
> 
> hugs n smooches to my lovely [azu](http://azusina.flavors.me/) for beta'ing this 5am emotion-heavy mess

Jason grips Nico hard enough to bruise when they shadow travel, fingers tight around a bony wrist, cold sweat chafing their skin. It’s dark: oily blackness that seeps into the cracks in Jason’s skin and clothes and hair and Nico’s outline all but disappears. Jason’s vision fades, panic creeping up his spine as the dark goes on and on and Jason forgets the way light caresses his skin and how warm the sun had been that morning and he can't breathe, can't think, so he grips and—

Nico yanks him back into sunshine, lets him go as Jason gasps, wretches, blinks open sky-blue eyes that could never quite get used to emptiness.

“Overshot,” Nico mumbles, then slumps against the scuzzy brick wall of the alley they've landed in.

Jason almost reaches out, but he knows Nico can't handle touch right after shadow travel, can't handle being squeezed after having to maneuver through loopholes in the world that shouldn't really exist, that protests every time it’s disturbed in terms of a lingering unease and limbs that threaten to fade away.

Instead Jason looks up, breathes in car exhaust and espresso and a city very far from home.

“Where are we?”

Nico shrugs weakly, eyes still closed and breathing coming sluggish.

“Can’t take us back yet.”

Jason figured as such, so he stretches, calmer now, and curious.

“Let’s go find something to eat, or at least coffee. Maybe there'll be signs, or a map.”

Nico nods, takes a deep breath before pushing himself off the wall, waving away Jason’s proffered hand.

“I’m fine, Grace. Coffee sounds really good right now, though.”

Jason grins, shoves hands into jean pockets and shortens his stride to match Nico’s as they walk out onto an old-world cobbled street.

They don't stick out too much, he hopes, the people walking briskly back and forth sporting sweaters and scarves not dissimilar to their own.

There’s a cafe on the corner and Nico picks up his pace, eyes bright at the promise of caffeine and someplace soft to sit.

A waft of warm air greets them and Jason hopes his stomach isn't audible.

“France.”

“Huh?”

“We’re in France.” Nico’s face is screwed up in confusion, glaring at the cafe menu like it had wronged him. “How did I get us all the way...?”

“Hey,” Jason nudges his shoulder gently, “better than the middle of the ocean.”

“Well, obviously,” Nico scoffs. “How, though?”

“We just fought a manticore, you’re exhausted, it happens.” Jason bounces up to the register. “Let’s get croissants.”

A pretty dark-haired girl with a mole on her cheek steps up, stopping to fix a display of macarons before turning vaguely bored eyes on him.

_“Puis-je vous aider?”_

“Uh.” Jason swallows, wondering how far pointing and miming will get him and if the seven crumpled American ones in his pocket will be accepted. “Do you speak—?”

_“Pouvons-nous obtenir une latté, un croissant et un café avec deux coups d'espresso, s'il vous plaît?”_

The accent flows out of Nico’s lips like it was meant to, curls around soft vowels and leaves Jason’s eyes widening in awe.

 _"Sept quarante,"_ the cashier sniffs, then calls their order to someone puttering with the espresso machine.

Jason fumbles, almost drops his wallet, but Nico pulls a pink credit card out of nowhere and hands it over with a murmured _“merci.”_

_“Elle va vous l'amener plus tard.”_

“Nico, that was amazing, I didn’t know you could speak French.”

Nico looks down, tucking his card back into whatever shadow he'd pulled it out of and leading Jason toward a tiny table near the window.

“It’s not that different from Italian.”

“Still! That’s incredible. You’re incredible.”

Jason beams and Nico flushes in the warmth; steam from their drinks mingles with the condensation on the windows blurring the world outside into a mess of hazy greys and browns.

Their coffees are brought over by a girl with a blond streak in her hair who glances between them, handing over Jason’s latte with a smile crinkling the edges of her eyes. Nico already looks better after drinking the dubious mix of espresso and seven brightly-colored packets of sugar he calls coffee.

 

 

The sky is streaked red with the promise of sunset when they finally set out, wandering through streets significantly more crowded than before. Nico latches his fingers around Jason’s wrist after one-too-many near-separations and Jason hides a smile, tucks the memory away somewhere safe.

They crest a hill and pause, tucking themselves into a doorway to take in the expanse of a city coming to life in front of them.

Jason sucks in a breath. “Is that—?”

“I guess we know where we are, at least.”

Jason glances down at a disgruntled Nico.

“Think you can take us home yet?”

“Still too tired.”

“Then,” Jason flexes, feels new air currents like old friends stir around him. “When in Rome...”

“We’re in Paris, Grace—”

Nico’s retort is cut short into a yelp as Jason scoops him up. He kicks off from the ground and soars, five, ten, fifteen stories into the air until they can see the specks of people walking along the banks of the Seine.

Nico’s protestations turn into breaths that ghost across Jason’s collarbones as they pass over twisting streets lined with stores too fashionable for their faded jeans and thrift store replacement aviator jackets.

It’s beautiful, Jason thinks, seeing city streets spread out like veins threading towards a heart without any of the noise; only wind rushing through his hair, Nico’s arms looped around his neck.

Nico clues in all too soon.

“We can't—”

“Why not?”

 

 

The topmost point of the tower is a few square meters of dark metal and thick wires leading to oversized Christmas lights.

It’s quiet up here, too, the buzz of conversation a dozen or so feet below them, and Nico is taking those short breaths again, eyes blown wide at the sight before them.

“You okay?”

“It's just,” Nico shakes his head, turns to Jason with shining eyes that bear no trace of the jaded teenager he's used to seeing, “I’ve been here before on missions for my dad, but I’ve never just...looked, I guess.”

Jason remembers airborne fights, monsters turning into glittering dust and floating over the skyline of whichever city he'd vowed to protect that day. Flight as a means to get from one battle to the next, never a moment to take in how much there is to see.

“Yeah.”

 

 

They sit on old metal and watch the city and Jason almost misses the Parisian sunset, too caught up in the gold making Nico’s eyes glow through his lashes.

Nico’s leaning back on his hands, thin legs swinging over the edge, head tipped back against the collar of his jacket.

“You’re not afraid of falling?”

“Nah,” Nico murmurs absently, eyes far away, smile almost imperceptible, “I know you'll catch me.”

 

There are no stars in Paris, but the tower lights up when the sky grows dark. Jason huddles into his scarf, early autumn winds harsh this high up.

Nico is leaning against him now, their backs pressed against the center pillar, Nico’s knees drawn up and Jason’s hands at home in their pockets again.

“This is nice.” Nico’s voice is a warm murmur near Jason’s chin, and when he looks Nico’s lids are drooping, half-hidden by wind-mussed black hair.

“We should come here again, sometime. Maybe on purpose.”

Nico’s huffs out a laugh.

“I think the Eiffel tower is only romantic the first time.”

Warmth blooms in Jason’s chest, seeps into his bones like honey, comes out in a peach-cheeked honest smile.

“Nico—”

“Let’s go home, Grace.”

Nico’s voice is hoarse, but the fingers that curl into Jason’s are soft, calloused palms pressed together tightly as shadows reach out so quickly Jason almost misses the embarrassed half-smile on Nico’s lips.

They’re pulled into darkness, again, and Jason ignores the rising panic, the way his throat catches, focuses on Nico’s long fingers laced through his, gentle pressure reminding him he’s not alone.

He leaves no bruises. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first jasico / pjo fic in general so any notes for characterization would be super helpful! s/o to clemmy for helping me descend into jasico hell.


End file.
